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Bloom

Summary:

It’s Joel Miller in a flower shop au. Need I say more?

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:

When Joel Miller first meets you, he's in a rush.

You find out that this is not a novel thing: being 'in a rush', or late to something, is a fundamental part of Joel's personality.

He walks into the flower shop so fast he almost stumbles over his feet, clad in Timberland's that have seen better days. The bell over the door rings succinctly to announce his arrival, and just as quickly the door slamming closed rattles the doorframe. He winces at the sound.

"Sorry," is the first thing he says to you, shuffling up to you. You're standing behind the counter with your mouth hanging slightly ajar, a furrow in your brow, and a hyacinth dangling in your limp grasp.

He is possibly one of the most handsome men that has ever stepped into the store. What the hell is he doing here ?

You assume he is lost.

"Are you still open?" he asks.

The answer is yes, you're still open. It's 4:58pm. Technically the store is due to close in two minutes. You should use the 'I've already closed the cash register’ excuse. You should be quietly furious that someone has decided to come flower shopping on a Sunday afternoon, after the store has been dead for the past hour.

"Sure," you say instead, your voice coming out slightly airy as you continue staring at the man in front of you. His hair is dark, and curls around the edges of his face, slightly damp from an unseasonably warm May. He is wearing a plain t-shirt, which is loose and wrinkled at the neckline (likely from tugging on its collar).

(Maybe you want to tug on that collar).

You realize that he is swaying on the spot, his body turned to survey the small shop floor, a hand now awkwardly scrubbing at the back of his neck.

This guy has no clue what he's doing.

"Can I help you in any way?"

He immediately looks back at you, his eyes dipping under your quiet scrutiny. He clears his throat.

"Is it that obvious?" he hedges guiltily. You feel your lips tilt into an unwitting smile as you gently fix the hyacinth into its intended bouquet.

"You're not the first man to walk through this door minutes before closing with a look of fear in their eyes."

You continue before he blanches too much and disappears in a cloud of shame.

"Hot date?" You tease politely. He huffs, hands dropping down to stuff into his pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels as he fixes you with a teasing look.

"If you call my mother a 'hot date', then yes."

Mother's Day, of course. There had been a flurry of last-minute buyers coming in this morning, clearing the majority of your Spring Collection for the day and bustling out as fast as they'd come in.

This guy is not last-minute. This guy is late.

You step around from the counter and begin moving towards the 'Build your own Bouquet' wall, which had been generally untouched throughout the day: people choosing efficiency and speed over choice and consideration.

As you go to call back to him, enquiring about his budget, you spin and find that he's followed you like a lost puppy and is practically on your heels, unaware that you had stopped to speak to him.

He walks straight into you with a gentle oof.

"Sorry," he says again, eyes wide, his hands (big, big hands wow look at those hands) clasping your arms to steady you as you stumble "I wasn't looking where I was going."

You give him a tight-lipped smile as he steps back out of your space, his eyes still trailing over the wall before you.

"Do you know if your mom is allergic to anything? Any sort of pollen?"

"Uhhhh —"

"We'll stay on the safe side, then."

You begin scanning the buckets, quickly and quietly plucking the colors and stems out to suit the ' I love you mom, I didn't forget about Mother's Day ' look you're attempting. You opt for dusty pinks, soft purples and whites balancing out against the woody stems. British tulips, eucalyptus, roses, carnations, asters and stocks —

"You're amazing," his deep rumble echoes behind you, making you jump out of your thoughts. You turn to look at him, and watch his eyes widen as he registers the words he just spoke aloud.

"You're really good at that, I mean," he quickly corrects, palms outstretched as though placating you "I would never be able to make something so beautiful."

Your mouth twitches into a smile.

"Sorry," he says again.

"You say 'sorry' a lot," you respond. That makes his eyebrows raise. He huffs a gentle laugh, his shoulders falling as though he's just come off a stage.

"You're right," his smile is small as you begin leading him back to the counter "I always got somethin' I gotta apologize for."

You lay the stems in your hands down on the wrapping paper, and begin picking through them to ensure they're evenly distributed throughout the bouquet. You absently grab for the twine by the cash register, your eyes not moving from your work.

"Oh, yeah? You in trouble with your mom, or something?"

As you continue to aimlessly pat the area where the yarn should be, your fingers suddenly come into contact with the warmth of skin. Your head shoots up, fingers poised over the man's hand, which is holding the twine out to you.

"Here."

"Thanks." You take the yarn from his hand and quickly look back down at your work, trying to ignore the tremble in your fingers and the breathlessness in your voice.

"I'm in trouble with my little girl, more than my mom." The man continues quietly, as though you hadn't just been struck by lightning. You raise your eyebrows to indicate you're listening. A daughter.  

"I never usually leave her alone on Mother's Day since her mom left," he says. Single dad. Single hot dad buying flowers for his mom — "but I got called last minute into work, one of our sites got flooded, and I had to leave her at my mom's for the day, she's got all that teenage anger —" he looks up, blanching as though he's just realized you're still there. "Sorry, you probably don't need to hear the life story."

"I'm sure she understands," you say gently. "You plan on spending Mother's Day with her by the time she's 50?"

He grins, and you're momentarily stunned by how much younger he looks when he does.

"If she'll let me."

You wrap the bouquet quickly and tie off the outer paper with a ribbon, and hand the bouquet carefully over to him.

"Tell your mom to put these in room temperature water, and cut off the ends of the stems off at an angle every few days to help them keep longer."

He looks at you with big, brown eyes that shine with something like awe.

"Thank you," he implores earnestly, "you have no idea how much you've saved my ass."

You try not to look too embarrassed by his praise, but you feel all of your nerve endings thrumming with energy.

"Any time," you insist, moving to ring him up. "You sure you don't want another bouquet for your daughter?"

"Nah, that's not Sarah's kind of thing," he grimaces, but there is fondness on his features as he thinks about his little girl. “My next stop is Costco. I need to get a chocolate cake that's big enough you have to put a deposit down for it."

The laugh you emit is unintentional, and it bursts from you sounding high pitched and sharp. You try not to shrink as you see his grin widen at the noise.

“That sounds like my kind of apology,” you try to recover, avoiding any eye contact with the dopey smile that still sits on his face. 

“I can bring you some, too,” your eyes snap up. You think perhaps he spoke before he thought it through again, but there’s no regret in his eyes this time. Just a shy twist of his features, his head slightly ducked as his hand finds its home scratching the back of his neck again, finishing with a quiet mumble “if you want.”

You wonder whether he feels the prickles up his skin like you do. It feels like you’ve developed an allergic reaction to pollen in the last 20 minutes. 

You keep your voice neutral as you ask “what do you have to apologize to me for?”

“Well, l kept you late,” he spares a glance to the clock on the wall. It’s 5:15pm. “I talked your ear off, probably kept you from your evening plans —”

“No plans,” you interrupt quickly, fingers fiddling with the edges of the wrapping paper in front of you. You look into his searching eyes, bravely keeping your gaze on his, before you say a little more softly “no plans.”

His lips tilt into a more confident smile, but you can see the creep of pink tinging the tops of his ears. 

“Good,” he says. 

“Yeah.”

It’s only when the sharp trill of a cell phone startles you both that you realize that you had both been frozen, staring at each other. You hope you didn’t look as starry-eyed as you feel. 

He shoots you an apologetic look (which is an improvement on him saying the words) and stretches his torso upwards to reach into his pocket and fish out his cell phone. It’s wrapped in a thick protective casing, which is as battered as his shoes and shirt. You try to convince yourself you don’t find it endearing. 

You clear your throat and try to remember what you were doing. You make your hands look busy and clear some trimmed stems into the compost, shuffle some pencils to the edge of the counter (how do you do your job again?)

“Hi baby girl,” he answers with a long-suffering sigh, already anticipating the tirade he’s about to receive on the other end of the line, you’re sure. His hand scrubs its way down his features, and you can hear a tinny voice on the other end of the call. “I know, I’m late –” 

He lifts the arm that isn’t holding his phone to look at his wrist, which you assume usually has a watch attached to it. Instead he’s just staring at a strip of skin that’s slightly lighter than the rest of his arm. He rolls his eyes at himself and quickly glances at the clock behind you at the same time as you do. 5:20pm. 

“Shit,” he mutters. 

Your eyebrows raise at him, the illusion of busyness long forgotten. You gently edge the bouquet he’s just bought towards him, and he glances at you, eyes wide and looking quietly grateful. He goes grab the bouquet by the stems, and in doing so he closes his hand, rough and warm, around your retreating fingers. You let in a sharp intake of breath, and lift your gaze to his face slowly.

The voice on the other side of the phone is still speaking, probably reminding him about something he’d forgotten (Mother’s Day flowers for his mom), or maybe complaining about his poor time management skills (he’s lost his watch).

But instead of listening, he’s just staring at you. Eyes glossy from a long day’s work, or perhaps the seasonal pollen, or perhaps scrubbing his hand over his face one too many times. He searches your gaze quietly, mouth poised open as though he’s got words on the tip of his tongue that are threatening to fall out.

You’re unsure whether you’re about to pass out or vomit. It feels like you’re at the edge of the rollercoaster, dangling over the ledge of the drop, suspended from a height and unable to see where the drop ends and the twists and turns start. Your skin feels warm, and you’re holding your breath. Your heart can’t decide whether it wants to be in your stomach or in your throat.

The hand encompassing yours squeezes, gently, purposefully, just once. You let out a shaky breath.

“Yep, I’m on my way, baby. ‘Promise,” he rasps quietly, before hanging up, the cell in his hand falling limp beside him. His eyes haven’t moved from yours. 

“I need to go,” he says, making no move to leave.

“OK,” you say, making no move to let go.

“Sorry,” he whispers, and your eyes light up in return.

“What are you sorry for?” 

The corner of his lips quirk upwards.

“I don’t know.”

That causes that laugh to bubble up in you again, and this time you’re not embarrassed to let it loose. It’s worth it to see the toothy smile that it pulls out of the man in front of you, who chuckles in return.

A couple of seconds pass.

“You’re late,” you gently remind him.

Shit.”

His hand takes hold of the bouquet now, just the bouquet, and your fingers slip from under his. They hover for a moment more before retreating back to safety, clasping with your other hand (preventing yourself from reaching back over, feeling that warmth again).

He moves towards the door, glancing down at the bouquet in his hands with a reverent shake of his head.

“Thank you again, this was –” he trails off.

“Good luck with your daughter,” you fill the silence. Your eyes start to feel dry from not blinking, and your nails dig gently into your palm.

“Thanks. I’ll, uh – ” he motions his head towards the door with a thin-lipped smile “I’ll see ya.”

The bell above the door tinkles, the rickety old wood slams against the doorframe once more, and you are finally alone. Silence descends in the small room, and the air suddenly feels more breathable. 

You take a few more moments to regain the sensations in your fingertips, and take slow, steadying breaths, before stepping around the counter to lock the door for the evening.

6:25pm. That man is going to be so la

The door is thrown back open with force, and you narrowly miss the brute swing of it with an exclamation of ‘Jesus Christ!’ as you stumble backwards.

He looks like he’s out of breath, like he’s been running a mile, but the only other car in the parking lot behind him is just meters away, next to yours. He’s practically hanging off the door handle, looking just as shocked to have been so close to knocking you flat.

Shit, sorry,” his eyes widen, looking at the door, shaking it to test its weight with a frown “this fuckin’ thing is fallin’ apart.”

A strange noise escapes you as you furrow your brows at him incredulously, half-snort, half-giggle.

“It’s an old door…” You can’t hide the amusement in your voice now as you regain his attention “Did you forget something–”

“My name is Joel — Joel Miller,” he blurts out quickly, mouth gaping open briefly as his brain catches up with his words “You never said whether you wanted cake or not.”

Your lips purse.

“You’re late, Joel Miller,” you repeat your earlier words, holding onto the last thread of sensibility that hangs between you both, fraying under the anticipation. You know there’s a little girl waiting for her father to get back, and likely an exasperated mother who is sick of her son’s antics. But god, the weight of his name on your tongue feels good. You think you could spend hours repeating it.

You’re sure there are probably hundreds more people in the world who would wait for Joel; he could be late to his own wedding and you think he’d get away with it once he leveled the congregation with those deep and searching brown eyes, which currently have you pinned down, defenseless. 

“I won’t be late tomorrow,” he says “say, 6pm? I’ll bring the cake.”

You grin.

“I’ll see you tomorrow at 6:30, then.”

 

Notes:

@nothoughtsjustmeds on tumblr!